


Dreams of Bluer Skies

by wentintoadream



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, The Beatles (Band), The Monkees (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Blow Jobs, But not necessarily for each other, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Feelings, Frottage, Hand Jobs, High Micky, How Do I Tag, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Smut, humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 16:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wentintoadream/pseuds/wentintoadream
Summary: Mike thinks too much. Especially about Micky. John tries to help.Set in 1967 when the Beatles threw a little shindig for the Monkees.
Relationships: John Lennon/Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Dreams of Bluer Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not nor have I ever owned the Beatles and/or the Monkees (but, gosh, wouldn't it be frickin' stellar if I did??). This is a work of fiction inspired by true events/settings (the Monkees trip to England, the Speakeasy Club, Micky's fun little adventure in Hyde Park, etc.). I repeat: THIS IS FICTION. Please keep in mind the tags and only read if you are comfortable with this sort of fiction. This is a kind, loving space, so please keep any hateful, hostile comments to yourself. As the saying goes, "Be groovy or leave, man!"

The dimly-lit room grew hazy with the smoke of God-knew how many shared joints and the thick vibration of seemingly endless conversation. 

Clad in loose fabrics of animated patterns and hues, men and women were draped leisurely along whatever horizontal surface they could find, pleasantly buzzing with alcohol or some other recreational substance that had been passed around at one point or another during the evening. They were all talking too. Talking and laughing and humming and singing. It was loud in the sense that it wasn't quiet, but not loud enough to drown out any unwanted, lingering thoughts that wouldn't just go ahead and shut up already no matter how much one begged… Not that  _ he'd _ ever beg, of course.

Before the blood in his veins had pumped to the beat of a song only the beer in his system knew, Mike had counted at least two-dozen people. Some came and went as they pleased, making the unknown number of faces blur in his vision with the rest of the opaque lights and smoke and clatter.

Well,  _ most  _ of the faces, anyway.

Mike didn't know how long he had been staring at that particular face. Maybe a minute, maybe five. He supposed that wasn't too important, anyhow. What  _ was  _ important, however, was how long that particular face had been staring back at him-- and by the amusement trickling out alongside a thin sheet of sweat (why was it so damn hot in there, anyway?) as well as the snarky quirk of lips, Mike reckoned it had been quite a while.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," the snarky lips noted before the butt of a diminishing cigarette was placed between them. "You look beat," they added, cheeks caving in ever so slightly as nicotined smoke was vacuumed into awaiting lungs.

Mike felt beat. Since arriving in London, he felt in all sorts out of whack. He chose to blame jet lag and his packed schedule. Those things made sense, after all. What didn't make sense was the stream of thoughts that flooded his mind like a once-calm stream after an enraged storm. Every waking moment was spent thrusting them away in agitation. Every sleeping moment was spent subconsciously indulging them, edging them on until they had  _ just  _ enough stamina to dominate his conscious mind where he convinced himself that they were unwanted… 

Mike shrugged, looking down into his half-empty beer bottle. "I'm thinkin'."

"Care to share with the class?"

Of course, he didn't! But something about the way the words oozed from between those lips along with the airy smoke made Mike smile. "'Fraid they ain't all that interesting."

"Oh, I very much doubt that." It was followed by a chuckle, one that sounded relaxed and stiff and entertained and awkward all at once. It sounded rather odd, actually, almost murky and tense. 

Yet, oddly enough, John seemed to pull it off.

"I think you misunderstand." Mike explained, "I meant it was so damn uninteresting, I've forgotten all about it."

That response seemed to amuse John as he let out another one of those chuckles. Mike found that a lot of the things he said amused John. Not that that was a bad thing, not at all, but it took him by surprise. When they had first met the Beatles, he half-expected them to pay them little to no mind as they shoved a pre-autographed snapshot in their faces and turned away. Never did he expect they would get on as well as they did. After all, these fellas weren't just  _ boss _ ; they were the inspiration for every and all forms of the very word that is 'cool'. And the Monkees? Well, they were just a group of boys sewn together as a Beatles knock-off. Mike still couldn't wrap his head around what groovy guys they were, especially John.

"Well, then," John said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, the low lights reflecting off his round glasses that had slid down to the tip of his nose. "Perhaps we can get you to think of something a little more interesting then." He peered at Mike over the thin metal rim, and he wondered if John could  _ actually  _ see him like that. 

Mike squinted his eyes, leaning forward to mimic the other's stance. They were close enough now that Mike could easily reach out and push John's glasses back up his pointed nose so he could properly see through the lenses. But since that would've been undoubtedly peculiar and unnatural, he settled simply on smiling softly and keeping his hands to himself. "What did you have in mind?"

"Mike!"

The awaited response was soon forgotten as the pair turned toward whoever had called out; in this case, it was a galloping Micky Dolenz nearly toppling over a few intoxicated bodies gazing up at the blank ceiling for whatever reason. With an ecstatic smile, Micky collapsed beside Mike on the sofa, flinging a lanky arm over his shoulders and leaning so close the tips of their noses bumped against each other. It reminded Mike of when they had to press in for a close shot whilst filming a scene, only Micky's pupils weren't usually this dilated nor his forehead this damp with sweat.

" _ Yessss? _ " Micky purred, awaiting the answer to a question Mike did not know.

"What?"

" _ What _ , what?"

Mike sighed. "What is it, Mick?"

"You wanted me," Micky laughed, turning to John with a comedic scoff and a look that said 'can you believe this guy?'.

"Did I?"

Micky grinned, exclaiming happily, "Oh,  _ did you! _ You called me." 

Mike shook his head. "I don't think I said anything."

"Maybe not with  _ those- _ " A smooth finger brushed itself against Mike's lips, encouraging them to fall apart. A brief notion of taking the digit into his mouth and sucking on it provocatively graced Mike's mind. He quickly pursed his lips tight so as not to unwittingly follow through with it. "But with  _ those _ ." Said smooth finger moved to Mike's temple, tapping lightly to further prove its point. "I can hear all of them, every thought in this room. It's real far out, Mike! A bit crowded. But  _ yours _ ," he smiled, "yours are the loudest!"

Guilt about that previous thought wafted through his mind before it suddenly occurred to Mike that such an ability was impossible. He gave Micky a skeptical, amused look. "Really? You can hear  _ every  _ thought?"

"Yep!" Micky beamed before a sudden, scandalized gasp escaped him. He turned to John, gawking at him in shock. "I heard that!"

A deep laugh erupted from John's stomach as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Is that so? Whaddja hear?"

"I can't repeat a thing like that!" Micky gaped. "What do you think this is, Saturday night at a cathouse?"

The ability to read minds was definitely, unquestionably impossible... wasn't it? Mike was absolutely certain at first, but now that a deep blush had settled on Micky's face and a cocky grin on John's, he wasn't so sure anymore. Either way, he cleared his mind to the best of his abilities of any too-personal thoughts that had been edging him on lately. Of course,  _ now  _ that he was forcing them out, the most recent Dolenz-inspired thought seemed to want to hang around.

Micky smiled and directed his attention back to Mike. 

And it terrified him.

"Yes, Mike?" he said all too innocently.

"You..." Mike glanced down at Micky's hands as they twitched and scratched at each other in his lap, trying to convince himself that all this mind-reading hoopla was just a silly fantasy from the stoned mind of a Monkee who was already odd enough as it was when  _ not  _ pumped on acid. "... must've confused mine with someone else's."

"No, no. Don't think so," he assured. "Yours are  _ very  _ distinct. They taste like square dancing and pecan pie."

"I know I'm just a picky eater, but I don't think you can taste a folk dance-"

"Woah,  _ woah _ , what's that?" Micky froze, staring off at a blank wall, seeing the unknown. His nostrils flared as if stopped in the middle of a proper sniff.

Mike stopped speaking, moving, breathing, thinking, as he focused on... something. His gaze darted from side to side in confusion. "What's what?"

"That  _ music _ ."

Mike listened intently, catching a few lyrics drifting from the corner where a few drunken characters butchered a rhythm. It didn't sound half-bad, actually. "Oh, what? You mean that singin'?" 

"No, no. Not that. It-" Micky let out an exasperated sigh, "well, it sounds like a tree."

"A tree? What's a tree supposed to sound like?"

"Like a… Man, it's a real groove! You know Mozart?"

"Yeah, he did that song with Berry, right?"

Another huff of laughter came from John's general direction, but Micky seemed either to have not noticed the joke or to have blatantly ignored it. "Trees sound like Mozart. You know that one that goes:  _ do do doodee do doodee do? _ " Mike didn't but nodded anyway. "They sound like that, only played on a mango."

"How do you play a mango?"

"The same way you play a grapefruit."

"Ahhh," Mike replied with yet another nod even though it didn't help make anything any more clear.

Micky slid to the edge of the sofa, looking around with a lost, sad expression. "It sounds worried sick, Mike! I think something's wrong." He turned to him with vast, pleading eyes. "I gotta help it! You won't be mad if I leave ya?"

Though Micky was clearly wasted out of his mind, Mike couldn't help but smile fondly at him. His eyes seemed to hold all of the world's virtue and loving compassion at once, even if it was all for a non-existent, sad musical tree. "Go on," he urged, elbowing him gently in the side.

Micky beamed, lurching onto his feet. As he turned to rush away, he shot John another exaggerated look of disapproval. "Tsk tsk," he muttered before running off in the direction of the music.

John snorted and shook his head, smashing his puny cigarette into a nearby ashtray. 

Mike pulled his gaze from Micky's distancing figure and fixed it on Lennon, a teasing grin on his face. "Must'a been some thinkin' you were doing there, huh?"

John hummed, directing his attention on Mike in an amused, curiously intense stare.

"Share with the class?"

Mike expected another relaxed laugh or obnoxious grin in response but was surprised by a strangely sober expression and an almost shrewd glint in his eyes. "How about a little show-and-tell?" he asked, tone dropping a few octaves. "I bet it'll interest you very much."

"I reckon it will," came his all too quick reply. Before Mike knew it, John was standing before him, wrapping his surprisingly soft hand around his wrist and pulling him to his feet. A devious smile was all Mike got before he was hastily guided to the door.

\--

"This okay?"

"Is it okay?" Mike let out a breathless laugh, resting the back of his head against the sofa's armrest. "Lord, is it  _ okay! _ "

That seemed to please John very much as he let out a delighted, little hum that Mike felt deep in his spine, almond eyes peering up at him over the rim of those darned glasses again. He pulled his head back, allowing Mike to slowly slide free from the warm mouth, an eager tongue circling around the smooth, taut skin, paying extra attention to the little slit of the tip where beads of salty pre-come told him that he was doing very well, indeed.

Mike let out a low groan, sliding a hand between the light brown folds of John's thick hair. "Where- where d’you learn to do a thing like this?"

John lapped once more at the cut tip before pulling away and resting his head on Mike's bare hip, the bunched up denim at his thighs pressing somewhat uncomfortably against his chest. Holding Mike's cock firmly at the base, he traced the veins along its underside with the pad of his thumb, gazing up at Mike with a sly grin. "Didn't you know? They teach it in the schools here."

Huh. Mike didn't remember Davy ever mentioning anything about that. "We only get half-told history and math in America."

John snorted, gaze dropping to the shaft in his grip as he lazily pumped it up and down. "I learned a lot of things. Like this-" cocking his head, John leaned forward to wrap his lips around the side of Mike's dick, giving it a sloppy, wet, open-mouthed kiss. Mike had never been with a chick (or anyone, for that matter) who gave terribly bad head, but he knew from others that teeth were  _ definitely  _ a big no-no when it came to the qualities of a good blowjob. Just the thought of it would force an uneasy shiver up his spine. However, as John's lips caressed him now and his top teeth ever so gently grazed the sensitive skin, Mike shuddered in unexpected pleasure, his breath quickening.

"And this-" John's voice was muffled as he adjusted his angle to take Mike wholly into his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks as he sucked, taking Mike's sack in his hand and massaging them briefly before sneaky fingers ventured further south. A single digit pressed down on the soft skin of Mike's perineum earning John the smallest of gasps from the man under him.

He circled the pinched, tight entrance of a place Mike didn't allow anyone to touch but himself, pulling away to mutter a prompt, "and this-" before engulfing him once more and pressing his finger down firmly. 

The alcohol in his system helped Mike relax as just the tip of the dry digit slid past the tight muscle ring. The feeling was different but not bad; the low pressure gave Mike the strange urge to both push out and clench in at the same time, his breath hitching as he gave John's hair an eager tug, muttering his name.

"You want him, don't you?"

The sudden question along with the absence of warmth around Mike's cock, exposing him to the draft of the room, made the air catch in his throat. He looked down at John who was now lapping at him in gradual motions, the pressure still inside him. "What? Who?"

"Micky," he muttered, scoffing as if it was obvious. "I saw the way you looked at him. You want him."

Mike opened his mouth to argue only for it to promptly fall shut as the previous encounter with Micky replayed through his mind. It hadn't been that obvious, had it? He had been so careful, scared half-silly to allow even an ounce of unnecessary affection show. After catching his own self one-too-many times staring at Micky and certain places of his anatomy that a friend was not supposed to be staring at, Mike had disciplined himself into keeping his eyes to himself, knowing that it was only a matter of time before his hands would follow. No, no. It couldn't have been  _ that  _ obvious

Then again, he was, maybe, just an incy wincy bit intoxicated and those intruding thoughts of no one but Micky had been more frequent as of late. Maybe he did manage to slip up just a bit...

Mike cleared his throat, looking over the edge of the sofa to avoid John's stare. "I want you."

"Be honest with me, Nesmith," John huffed, giving Mike an almost stern look as he stopped his motions and slipped his finger free of Mike's body.

"I am. I'm here, ain't I?" Mike groaned in irritated frustration. Why did John bring it up if he knew it was only going to muddy things up, anyway?

John hummed, eyes falling back down to Mike's dick as he resumed the slow stroking. "Not completely." He rubbed the pad of his thumb in a circular motion across the head, a sudden mischievous smirk flashing on his face. "C'mon, admit it. You haven't been able to stop thinking about him, huh? Every time you close your eyes- every time it just gets more and more intense, doesn't it? You want him."

Mike closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very open and exposed in a way he had spent his whole life hiding. "I don't..." he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"You want him," he repeated. "You want him between your legs like this, huh? You want to feel his hot breath against you." John smirked as he stilled his movements, sticking out his tongue, long and flat, and slowly swiping it up the full length of Mike's cock. "Feel his tongue against you." He parted his lips, wrapping them around just the tip and sucking slowly, deeply. He hummed and peered up at Mike who was intensely watching him with an expression that made John's own cock stir in arousal. He pulled away with a pop, pumping Mike agonizingly slow. "See him look up at you like such the good boy he is as he wraps his lips around your pretty cock. You want to grab his face and shove your big dick  _ alllllllllll  _ the way into his tight, hot, wet mouth as you fuck his throat until-" 

"Oh,  _ fuck _ ," the curse rolled from Mike's throat as his stomach tightened along with his grip on John's hair.

"How long have you wanted him, Mike? How long have you wanted to touch him? Kiss him? Fuck him? Own him? Tell me."

Mike moaned, his face scrunching and eyes snapping shut as he thrust his hips up to meet John's painfully sluggish pace. "I don't know." John snorted and the hand around him released its delightful grip, leaving his poor, unfortunate manhood all alone and aroused. He peeked out to see John sitting up from between his legs, releasing the clasp of his own trousers. "Since I met him," he quickly admitted, desperate for another touch.

John hummed, satisfied with that answer, and adjusted himself so that he straddled Mike's waist, his own leaking cock sticking hard and proud from between his opened zip. "What's keeping you up at night? Is it dreams of him? Are you too busy dreaming of all the filthy ways you can take him to get any proper sleep?" He took hold of Mike once again, leaning forward so his cock slid easily next to Mike's, pumping them in unison. "Do you dream of him like this, Mike?" John panted, rutting against him as if his life depended on it. " _ Mmm _ , sitting on top of you and squeezing your big ol'cock so nice and tight? Whispering such naughty things as he rides you like a bull?"

Mike nodded frantically, the short breaths coming in and out of his lungs too quickly rendering him unable to stammer out even a single word.

"Could you touch him, Mike?" John moaned wantonly, sinking his face into Mike's neck, the metal hinge of his glasses driving into Mike's skin. "Touch  _ me? _ "

And touch, Mike did. 

His once limp arm rose to wrap around John, pulling him close, nearly flat against him as he jabbed his hips up to meet John's. His other hand tangled into the head of thick almond hair, the nails digging into his scalp producing a delightful-sounding wail out of John.

" _ Oh _ , yes," John breathed. "Hare Krishna, you're brilliant. So fucking  _ brilliant _ . What do you need? Tell me what you need."

Mike swallowed, trying to gather enough strength to speak and enough wits to make whatever he spoke at least somewhat decipherable. The muscles of his stomach tightened in eager anticipation of the familiar build up in his gut. He gripped the elaborately floral shirt on John's back, the heat of his skin radiating to Mike's grasp. "Need to come," he panted, a sudden cry billowing past his lips. " _ Gonna _ come."

"What's the magic word?"

Fucking  _ hell _ . Mike whined much to his own surprise and tugged at John's hair, lifting his head. John stared at him with eyes black with blown pupils behind fogged lenses, cheeks bright pink, and lips parted and swollen red with tiny indents from his teeth. The exquisite sight only pushed him closer to where he wanted to be and he gasped out a plea without even thinking, "Please! Oh, god,  _ please! _ "

Huh. Apparently, he  _ could  _ beg, after all.

John choked on their shared breath, his face contorting and hips stuttering as his orgasm was ripped from his body. He dropped his head to Mike's neck, digging his teeth into the tender skin there with a muffled, "Oh, Pa-  _ yes! _ "

The erratic humping and harsh pain tipped Mike over the edge as he clenched his teeth, dug his nails into his back, and moaned a name that wasn't John's, his mind muddled with indescribable need and the lone thought of Micky Dolenz like a bright light on the darkest of starless nights.

He didn't know how long it took to finally come back down from his orgasmic euphoria littered with the smell of Micky and the shape of his lips, but when he finally did, he found that breathing was quite difficult with the weight of the other man on his chest. He released his grip on John's shirt and hair, gazing up at the blank ceiling in fading bliss. "John," he said the name slowly, feeling suddenly guilty about saying someone else's. "That was..."

John sat up with a breathy laugh and a smile worth a hundred bucks. "I know."

Mike dared himself to look down: his sensitive, limp cock laid against his stomach still clothed in a shirt that was now damp with sweat and the quickly drying mess that both he and John had left behind. John's shirt looked just as bad. "Dear lord."

John looked down and laughed, steadying his hands on the back of the sofa as he attempted to get up. "Let me just go and..." he trailed off, groaning as his legs protested to sliding off of Mike and onto the comedically uneven floor. He managed to stumble to the door without completely falling down, wobbling unsteadily as he shut it behind him.

Mike figured that he'd probably better go after John to clean himself off before someone walked in, but his body was weighted down against the sofa by his cement bones. He couldn't move if he tried, so he decided not to  _ even  _ try, no matter how lewd and filthy he looked with his legs sprawled open, jeans bunched together at his thighs. 

His heavy lids fell closed. Not to sleep, of course.  _ That  _ would be embarrassing. No, just to think. The dark, grey thoughts that had plagued him before didn't seem so loud anymore. They weren't screaming or pushing or shoving. They were simply floating weightless in the air, wandering here and there and everywhere.

They wandered to some enchanted beach that reminded him of the ones in L.A. Micky was there, lounging on a towel in especially short shorts, leaving very little to the imagination. He was looking up at the unusually blue sky, far bluer than Mike had ever seen. The whole scene was a big contrast to his usual thoughts, all dark and grey and hazy. Everything here was vibrant and bright and beautiful, just like the smile on Micky's face as he turned to him and pointed up at the sky. He started speaking to him but the sound that came out wasn't his usual happy tone. He sounded an awfully lot like Rob Serling. 

" _ There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man, _ " Micky was saying, the salty Pacific breeze blowing through his curls. Mike was just about to ask what in the Sam Hill he was going on about when Micky suddenly placed his hands on either side of Mike's face, gazing at him with eyes like the night sky and pressing his lips to Mike's. It was intense, rendering Mike breathless, yet soft at the same time. Micky tasted so sweet, like bananas and coffee with a half-a-pound of sugar in it. Mike wanted to stay like this forever, kissing Micky and pulling his warm body close, but inevitably Mick pulled away. He smiled broadly at Mike, rubbing the tips of their noses together before adding, " _ It is an area which we call... The Twilight Zone. _ "

Mike opened his eyes at the feeling of a warm, damp cloth against his flaccid cock, blinking up at a smirking John Lennon. "Don't mind me," he said, wiping him down gently. "You can go back to sleep."

"I won't sleepin'," Mike insisted, forcing his eyes open. "Just thinkin'."

"You snore while you think, then?"

Mike wanted to smack John in the arm but found the task of lifting his own to do so quite impossible. He let out a huff and watched as John finished wiping him off. He was already cleaned and tucked back into his own trousers, his shirt soaked dark as water dripped from the lapels. Mike figured he must've taken it off in the bathroom and scrubbed it clean in the sink. "Look, about all that-" he began, only for John to quickly interject:

"Let me guess: I'm a nice bloke and all and we had some fun, but you've got a wife and kid at home so it'd best be forgotten?"

"You understand."

John snorted, attempting to scrub the sticky mess off Mike's shirt. "Well, yeah. That's my line."

"Naw, not that," Mike shook his head slowly, licking his dry lips. "About Micky."

John cleared his throat. "You should tell him, you know. One day it's gonna be too late and all that dreamin' would be for nothing."

Mike stared at John, the place between his brows wrinkled. "Paul?"

The scrubbing stopped as John's hands stilled, his body tensing. He glanced up at Mike but for a second before darting his eyes back down to the near-ruined fabric. Despite the small duration of the look, Mike was struck by how familiar it was. It was the same face Mike saw when he glanced in the mirror in recent days, solemn and sad with eyes that gave away a hopeless, unfixable rift deep within. John swiped at Mike's shirt once more before standing with a shake of his head. "Get some sleep, you can barely keep your eyes open." He looked down at Mike's legs before flashing him a knowing grin. "And you might want to pull up your trousers."

Mike huffed out a laugh as he managed to shimmy the jeans back up his hips, attempting to hook the button into it's respected hole only for his eyes to close somewhere in the process of it all as he drifted off into a sleep long overdue.

-

Most people woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee or the sound of a ticking alarm clock. Mike, however, was not granted any of these pleasantries.

The vile taste of acid along with the reappearance of the previous day's meals rising up his esophagus tore Mike from his peaceful slumber. He quickly sat up, a small wastebasket conveniently shoved into his lap, as he proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach, gagging and convulsing, tears beading at the edge of his eyes.

"Good morning!" an all-too cheery voice exclaimed from somewhere in front of him.

Mike didn't sit up straight away, leaning over the bin as he forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, his throat and nose aching along with his brain that pounded against the inside of his skull. When he finally dared to wince up, he saw Davy immaculately dressed and ready to take on the day with a charming smile that Mike wasn't at all too pleased to see, not in the mood for good-naturedness of any kind. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and set the wastebasket on the floor beside the bed, falling back against the plush pillows in exhaustion.

"You look like shit, babe."

"I feel like shit, babe," Mike croaked, his body melting against the warm comforter beneath him. He closed his eyes, wanting to go back to sleep, but attempted to recall the events of the previous night. There was a party thrown by The Beatles. Lots of drinking, perhaps a little too much. Micky was talking about some tree or another. He and John snuck out and to a dingy little room where they got up to some pretty scandalous stuff. He fell asleep shortly afterward on the sofa, and...

His eyes popped open as he looked around the room with a glare, angry at it for being so unnecessarily bright. He was on a bed, large and soft. The room was clean and elegant, though obviously lived-in with a few beds and quaint little living space. The morning sun streamed through a large bay window, the curtains pulled away, and Mike knew that Davy  _ must've _ opened them on purpose just so he could torture Mike's poor head. That tiny sadist. "How'd I get here?"

"Must'a been carried in," Davy shrugged, brushing a hand through his clean, freshly washed and blow-dried hair. "I know Peter was." He let out a laugh, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "You lads sure know how to ‘ave a good time, I tell ya! Comin' in, all knocked out and covered in- what even is  _ that? _ "

Mike followed Davy's general nod that led to his very own shirt. It quickly became obvious that John wasn't entirely thorough when it came to scrubbing shirts. He shrugged. "Dunno."

"Covered in whatever that is, then," Davy continued, putting the fag between his lips as he shoved his hand in his pocket to fish out something to light it with, "vomiting all over yourselves. Had to call housekeeping at half-near four. Peter really gave it to them, I'm tellin' ya. I got sick meself just bein' near it!"

"It wasn't  _ that _ bad." Mike nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice drifting out the bathroom door. Peter came out, towel wrapped around his head in a way Mike had seen Phyllis do a few times, clad only in a pair of loose, flowing trousers. His bare, tanned chest glistened with the undried remains of his shower as he dangled a shirt in his hands.

"You must be joking," Davy scoffed. "It was  _ terrible _ , babe! Looked like somethin' from a horror movie!" After finding a matchbook, he lit the tip of his cigarette, inhaling a large breath of smoke. "Must'a been some smash, the pair of you."

"Any of you seen Micky?"

"He's outside."

Mike's brows furrowed, half-believing it. They were on tour, it wasn't like they could just walk outside and get a breath of fresh air without the bombardment of a hundred fans. ‘What's he doing out there?’ Mike wondered internally. "What's he doing out there?" He wondered externally.

Davy stared at the cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke as it slowly drifted through space. He nodded towards the window. "See for yourself."

Mike snapped his eyes shut, mentally encouraging himself to manage the strength to do such a task. After a few dull breaths, he finally rose and stumbled out of bed, his feet shuffling to the window. He grimaced as he drew closer to the light, throwing one arm over his eyes and stretching the other out to feel the wall he knew would come. He felt his way to the window, braced himself, and dropped his arm, freeing his sight to the blinding light. He eventually opened his eyes and looked down. "What the hell-"

Down below a tsunami of people, mostly kids and teenagers, crowded around a lone figure Mike instantly recognized as Micky. Still dressed in the same threads from the night before, hair puffy with curls, he seemed to be speaking giddily to those around him. Mike leaned down against the windowpane, hoping to catch even a flash of what he may have been saying. The muffled tone and exaggerated movements resembled Micky's James Cagney. "What the hell does he think he's doing? He's gonna get himself killed!"

"I highly doubt that, Michael," Peter said as he plopped down in a chair, releasing his wet hair from the towel's confinement. "It looks to be a relatively peaceful gathering. You underestimate humankind's capability of joining together in harmony and love without hostility."

Mike rolled his eyes before pinching them shut quickly, the sudden action reminding him of what a damn-terrible headache he had. He shook his head and pulled away from the window, deciding it would be in the best interest of his poor mind to just drop the matter for now. "I need a shower."

"I was just gonna say," Davy chimed, scrunching his nose.

"Aw, shuddup," the Texan muttered without any real malice, making his way to his suitcase and shifting through the contents until he found what he needed.

Once shut inside the bathroom, Mike turned on the faucet and stuck his head in the sink, lapping up the cool water to the approval of his sore, dry throat. When he finally drank so much he'd drown if he'd continued, Mike stripped bare and slithered his way into the shower. He closed his eyes as the hot spray soaked his skin, the warmth easing the muscles he didn't know had become so tense.

His thoughts wandered to the events of the night before, to John and their little romping in the hay, to everything he had said about Micky. He had been right. Everything he said, even if it was all dirty talk to get Mike hot and bothered, was true. It was completely and utterly true, and it was about time that Mike finally admitted it to himself instead of continuing to push it to the very back of his mind.  _ Mike wanted Micky _ . There was nothing in the world he wanted more than Micky and Micky alone.

It wasn't all about sex either. Sure, all those filthy things shifted him closer and closer to his edge, but it was way much more than that. Micky seemed to have a whole other universe in that head of his, filled with the dreams and understandings of a billion galaxies that Mike couldn't even pretend to comprehend even if he tried. Oh, but did Mike want to  _ try! _

He wanted every part of Micky, his thoughts and ideas, his emotions, his soul, his whole body, his complete being. Mike wanted it all and more and, dammit, now that he finally admitted it to himself, he knew he was in far too deep. Those tormenting thoughts that had plagued him when he was in denial were bad enough. How would they be now that he accepted how he truly felt?

John was right about another thing too. One day it  _ would  _ be too late. One day, Micky'd find himself a nice girl to settle down with, the Monkees would be a nostalgic group of the past and they'd go their own separate ways. No matter how good it seemed today, tomorrow was uncertain and Mike had to be honest with himself about that. If something were to happen, it had to happen right then and there, even if it meant risking everything he had now.

So, as the now-cold water forced Mike out of the shower with suds still in his hair, it was decided. 

Mike was going to tell Micky.

Loud chatter and laughing hit Mike square in the face as he left the bathroom, his brain crying at the unnecessary volume. " _ Shhh _ ," he whispered, finger at his lips as he winced up at his fellow Monkees who promptly quieted down. His gaze landed on Micky who was lankly sprawled across the bed, a can of Coke balancing on his flat chest, hand hovering around its base just in case. He had an incredibly sparkling smile despite how his eyes drooped with exhaustion. 

He sat up when he noticed Mike looking at him, scooching to the end of the bed and planting his feet on the floor. "You gonna yell at me, Mike?"

"Naw, I ain't gonna yell."

Micky beamed happily at that and laid back down, setting the can back on his chest. "Good," he said peacefully as if he could finally rest with that knowledge behind him.

"Mick-" Mick cleared his throat and placed his hands on his hips to trick himself into believing he had an ounce of confidence. "I, uh, I did wanna talk to you 'bout something though."

"Yeah, Mike? Lay it on me."

Mike glanced at the other two in the room who were both watching him with curious looks. "In private."

" _ Private? _ " Davy shouted in near hysteria. "Why's it 'ave to be in  _ private? _ Is it about me?"

Mike shot him a sideways look. " _ Why _ would it be about you?"

"Why  _ wouldn't  _ it be!"

Mike sighed, turning back to Micky who gazed up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. "Mick?"

Micky smiled and set his Coke down on the bedside table. He sprung up off the bed and wrapped his gentle grasp around Mike's wrists. "Let's go," he beamed, skipping to the door and dragging Mike behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is the first piece of fiction I've written in... dear me, five years now, is it? With that in mind, please feel free to leave any constructive criticism(s) you may have to help me improve my skill! Remember that love and kindness outweigh malice and animosity. If you plan to comment, please be considerate and respectful. Thanks for reading!


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